


Dark Night of the Soul

by Emma_ChrisWay



Category: In the Night Garden (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25610482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emma_ChrisWay/pseuds/Emma_ChrisWay
Summary: The dark truth behind In The Night Garden. Igglepiggle, Upsy Daisy and Makka Pakka are embroiled in an evil plot.
Relationships: Upsy Daisy/Iggle Piggle
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

A weary father lets his two-year-old son climb onto his lap. The end of an exhausting day. Nearly bedtime, let 'In The Night Garden' cast its spell. The bundle of energy on his lap finally stops wriggling. Limbs relaxing, breathing slowly. Dad rests his eyes and feels himself sinking into the sofa. He pours himself a well-earned glass of wine. All is calm.

One by one, the colourful comforting creatures of the Night Garden go to sleep. Finally, the sun sets, the stars glimmer in the blue-black sky, and Igglepiggle drifts away in his bedtime boat.

Flick of a switch and the glaring stage lights blaze back into life. ‘That’s a wrap, everybody’. Igglepiggle stumbles off to his subterranean dressing-room, damp and smelling of cheese and onion crisps. He looks up to the spy camera in the far corner of the ceiling, winking its red light. ‘We’re done, right? 100 episodes. That’s enough you say?’. The light in the camera grows brighter and then flashes, 1- 2- 3 times. The signal for ‘yes’. ‘I’ve been waiting to see that for a _long_ time!’ smirks Igglepiggle to himself as he slumps into his chair and pours an oversized whisky.


	2. Chapter 2

13 years later…

Andrew, a contented 15-year-old, sits eating fish fingers and chips at the kitchen table. His younger brother, Bob, is desperately trying to attract his attention by balancing his fork on his top lip. ‘So boring’ thinks Andrew. ‘He really needs to come up with some new tricks.’ He gazes past his Mum cleaning the pans at the kitchen window. Fat stormy raindrops impinge on the glass and on every other window in the suburban housing estate.

Meanwhile, Kristen lounges cozily in her family’s Camper van overlooking the downy Mendip Hills. ‘Pleuvisaud’ she muses to herself as the rain tip-taps comfortingly on the tin roof. Today, the day after her 13th birthday, was a good day, she thinks. One step closer to leaving her family behind. 

When she was little, living in a Camper van had seemed such fun. Staying up to watch the sun set, her parents’ friends playing guitar, laughing and singing. But now she needed to breathe. The claustrophobia was killing her. 

She wipes the condensation from the window and peers out, cupping her hands to her face. She can just about see Bob and Andrew’s house down in the valley. ‘Bet they’re not eating lentil stew,’ she thinks to herself. 


	3. Chapter 3

Dave Joyce sits forlornly in his gloomy bedsit cradling a very large glass of Chivas Regal. ‘They said my payday is coming. I’ve waited 13 years for this. 100 episodes in that stupid furry blue suit, sweating. Bouncing around. I lost two stone doing that gig.’ He ruminates, looking at his ever-expanding belly. ‘And now what, no-one offers jobs to 'the actor who played Igglepiggle'. Three years at Drama School and then.... Unemployable. But now, 13 years later. They said they would call. How much longer do I have to wait?’ He gazes up at the red light in the corner of his room. Constantly blinking… slowly… on… slowly… off. Dave seemed to spend most of his days looking at that light. Tormenting him. Waiting for the signal. It must come soon.

Anna Whicker gazes out of her window, her beauty fading like the evening twilight. She used to be so youthful and happy, or at least that’s how her character was forced to appear, but now… She had always battled a dark side to her personality but fought hard to lock it away, all for the sake of Upsy Daisy. She had done some terrible things in the past, in the bleak years after drama school. She tried to forget but the deeds haunted her dreams. ‘Was I always so easily led?’ she wonders. She shakes herself and tries to focus on the blinking light in the corner of the room. Soon it will all be over and she can escape to her very own wilderness, far from intruding eyes. A hut in the woods, with a trout stream. That’s all she needs. All she deserves.

Seamus Finnegan sits darning his socks by the wood-burning stove, drying off from the cloying damp of an August afternoon on the west coast of Ireland. A simple man with simple needs, his two-room bothy overlooking the strand is spartan but cosy. In his thirties, Seamus had finally found some form of contentment after so many troubled and troublesome years. An orphan, he found solace in his imagination, and then in the imagination of others as a rising star in the Young Beckett’s theatre group in North Dublin. That was where the casting director of In The Night Garden had discovered him. Barely 20 years of age but with a gift for portraying self-containment and pathos, he was the ideal choice to play Makka Pakka. Sceptical at first, Seamus was seduced by the prospect of living in London for the filming, and a promise of a big payday at the end of the contract. If only he’d read the small-print.

Something catches his eye. Up beside the painting on the wall: the blinking red light, his constant companion for the past 12 years suddenly shines a bright and steady green. ‘Jeez’ he mutters to himself, ‘it’s really happening’. He walks over to retrieve the device he had hidden behind the painting a week before. It had arrived in the post in a nondescript Jiffy bag. Shiny-black with a stubby antenna and a single push-button, it came with a note that simply read: ‘To Makka Pakka, your contract is due for completion. Press button on signal.’ 

As this happens, Anna Whicker finishes making her mug of chamomile tea in the kitchen and returns to the front room, ersatz country-cottage decor in her 1970s bungalow, and switches on the television. Her daily routine: Pointless and tea. As the TV flickers into life she notices the light behind it has changed to green. Blankly, she puts down her tea and puts her bony hand down to the bottom of the pot pourri bowl beside her favourite chair. She fishes out the strange black object that had arrived previously with the note: ‘To Upsy Daisy…’

Simultaneously, the flickering red light in Dave Joyce’s room turns a bright green. His whisky glass falls to the floor as he leaps out of his sagging chair. His heart pumping, he has to steady himself, leaning on the door frame. He punches the air but suddenly the reality of what is happening hits and he sinks to his knees. Just one more job and he would be free from the tyranny of his contract. Just one more job, but, what WAS it? Just one more job, and then finally I get my hands on that money they owe me. He grins and ferrets behind the ratty cushion of his chair for the black device that was delivered to his door earlier that week: ‘To Igglepiggle…’

With trepidation and excitement, Seamus, Anna and Dave each press the thumb-sized button on their new black devices. Immediately a sonorous, authoritative voice booms out: ‘As per the terms of your contract, there is just one more task for you to perform. In two days a car will collect you. Bring three changes of clothes. On completion of your duties we will settle the monetary terms of our contract forthwith.’ 


	4. Chapter 4

The sun beats down on the Camper van and all is still, save a shimmering heat haze. The door is propped open in a vain attempt to allow a breath of fresh air to circulate. Inside, Kristen’s mother, Harmony, sits on an unmade bed, tightly clutching a letter in her fist. She breathes a shuddering sigh, unable to read beyond the words telling her that Kristen has left. Where did it all go wrong? 

Harmony gets unsteadily to her feet and gazes out of the window, down to the town below. Taking a deep breath, she tries desperately to think rationally. She bends to open a small locker, feeling blindly until her fingers close around a tobacco tin. Even before she opens it, she knows - the money has all gone. Harmony fervently believes that material items damage the soul, that all one needs to survive is air, water, sunlight and sleep. She had even read about monks that survived for decades in the mountains on air alone but hadn’t been brave enough to experiment on her own family. What could Kristen need the money for? Drugs? Was she in trouble? 

Next, Harmony rummages in a box next to Kristen’s bed. Her beloved penknife has gone, as well as her diary and a small pile of battered paperbacks. Exhausted, she collapses onto the patchwork pillows and sobs.

Frank whistles as he walks up the hill, occasionally stopping to catch his breath, swinging his patched leather jacket over his shoulder. The sun is shining and he feels good. He calls out to Harmony as he nears the Camper van. The whistling stops. What has happened? The children? Harmony, talk to me.

Silently, she hands him the crumpled letter and he reads slowly, mouthing the words. She stares blankly, expecting an exclamation of some sort. Instead, Frank sinks onto the bed next to her and clears his throat.

‘We always taught the kids to think for themselves. Kristen is no fool, she knows what she’s doing. She says she just needs some time to herself and I think we should give her the space. She’ll be back.’

Kristen hums with excitement as she prepares her bed in the corner of a heavily graffitied goats’ hut. Originally a world war II bunker, the concrete structure would offer perfect protection against the elements - and prying eyes.

The hippies had laid claim to the site long after the war ended, rearing goats and selling goats’ cheese to eke a meagre existence. But they only visit once a day to feed and milk the animals.

Kristen sweeps the debris away from a dark corner of the bunker, laying out a small rectangular groundsheet. She fashions a little shelf from some sticks and twine, a trick she had learned as a Girl Guide, before her mother had extracted her from ‘normal’ society.

As she ties the final knot and trims the loose ends with her penknife, Kristen can’t help but feel pleased with herself. She can do this. If only she could get used to the smell. She wrinkles her nose and sniffs, wiping her sleeve across her face. 

She snaps open the fastenings on her trusty backpack to pull out a neat kerosene lamp, wrapped in newspaper. As it casts a flickering light across the ceiling, Kristen pulls out her diary and pencil. ‘What a day.’

She stops, pensive for a moment. I wonder what Bob and Andrew are doing right now? I bet their mum is carving slices of Viennetta ice cream. She had heard them showing off about it to the other kids in the park. Those boys don’t know how lucky they are, she thinks, vainly attempting to banish all thoughts of envy. Her mother had taught her something, at least. 


	5. Chapter 5

Bob and Andrew lean back in their chairs after another delicious meal. ‘Thanks, Mum’ says Bob, 'Mint Viennetta. My favourite.' 

'Only cos she always gives you the biggest slice,' grunts Andrew, glaring at Bob. 

'Oh, come on, Andy, let’s go outside and play swingball. I might even let you win this time!'. 'Could a brother be more annoying,' thinks Bob. He tries to maintain the peace to keep his Mum happy but it’s not easy.

They pick up their plastic bats and reset the swingball pole. Bob takes an almighty swipe at the ball. 'I keep telling you. Not like that. That’s cheating!' rants Andrew as the ball arcs high into the air then swings round and loops under Andrew’s bat. 'I hate you, you can’t play any game like a normal person.' Andrew throws down his bat, which bounces off the cement-hard grass, hitting Bob on the knee. 'Oh, sorry, Bob, that was an accident. I really didn’t mean to…'

'That’s it!' screams Bob, biting his lip to stop himself from crying in front of his brother. 'I’ve had enough.' He goes back into the house, puts on his anorak, fills his pockets with sweets and biscuits and stomps off to the front door. 'Mum, just going round to see Tim', he lies, slamming the door behind him.

Bob stuffs his fists deep in his pockets and marches up the cul-de-sac, past all of the annoyingly happy families. He glances up at the hills in the distance then returns his gaze to the pavement beneath his feet. One step at a time. Count to ten. That’s what Mum always says. She is always full of useless advice. He takes a left turn towards Tim’s house, glancing behind him to his home, the setting sun reflecting off the windows.

But this time, rather than knocking on Tim’s door, he turns up the lane running alongside his house, up to the hill overlooking the town. 'Just some time alone' he thinks to himself. 'Mum’ll be OK, she thinks I’m at Tim’s. I’ll be back home before it’s dark.' He starts up the hill, steepening with every stride. Bob starts to feel the weight lifting off his shoulders as a breeze ruffles his hair. He puts his hood up and starts running up the hill, smiling gently to himself.

Bob stops to catch his breath once he reaches the top, bending over and resting his palms on his knees. One final deep breath. One last glance at his house, now miniature in the distance. He sits on the gravel path, tossing stones down the hill and enjoying the clattering sound. His sprint has given him a craving for sugar. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slightly melted packet of Minstrels. Serves Mum right for not giving him enough Viennetta, he thinks.

He gleefully stuffs the whole packet of Minstrels into his mouth in one go, savouring the sensation of them melting on his tongue. He empties his pockets out to see what else he swiped from the biscuit tin. 'Hmmm, I wonder if goats like Wagon Wheels?' he sniggers to himself and walks off to the old World War II concrete huts. Last time he was there with Andrew they had seen a small troop of goats, sheltering from the wind. Must belong to those hippies in the caravans up there, they thought. 'Here goaty goaty' he chants, holding out a slightly-squashed marshmallowy treat in front of him. 

Bob stares deep into the goat’s eyes, mockingly waving the chocolate at him. The goat comes close, sniffs the gooey mess in his hand and trots off behind one of the huts, her nose in the air. Bob feels as if the creature is taunting him. 'The whole world is against me. I can’t be bothered any more,' he thinks. As he gives the animal his meanest stare, Bob is suddenly conscious of a second pair of eyes watching him. Finally, a figure steps out from behind the hut. The girl has a wild look in her eyes, but is strangely familiar, with her dirty face and tangled hair.

Bob stares at her, trying not to show her that his knees are shaking. 'Wha, who are you? Where did you come from?' He steps slowly backwards, keeping his eyes on the strange girl.

'Erm, Bob isn’t it? What have you got in your hand? Is that goat food?'

'How do you know my name?' replies Bob, his voice cracking. He turns to run but trips on a protruding tree root and falls to the floor, bumping his forehead on the hard ground.

'It’s OK. I’ve just seen you in the park before. I heard someone call after you.' Kristen slowly walks over to Bob. 'Are you OK?'

'Just leave me alone, weirdo.' Bob can feel his face flushing. 'Yeah, I thought I’d seen you before. You’re that girl who just sits on the wall reading a book aren’t you?'

'Have you got a problem with that?' asks Kristen. 'I don’t know what else to do. Everybody ignores me if I try to join in so it’s easier to stick my nose in a book. Half of the time, I am not actually reading. I just pretend.'

'You’re a weirdo,' repeats Bob. 'It’s not hard to swing on a swing or jump on a roundabout. Anyway, I’d best be off.'

As Bob stands to leave, Kristen picks up the dusty Wagon Wheel that had fallen from his hand. She sniffs it eagerly and then touches it to the tip of her tongue.

'Weirdo,' Bob shouts. 'Here, take it all.' He throws all of the remaining biscuits at her and turns to head home. But his knee is bleeding and he still feels shaky.

'God, that is DELICIOUS' says Kristen, as she takes a small bite out of the Wagon Wheel. 'Bob, what is this?'

'Huh, never had a Wagon Wheel before?'

'No, but I wish I had.' She smirks. 'Oh, your knee looks sore. You’ll need to clean that up or it’ll get infected.'

'Yeah, I know. I’m OK. Doesn’t hurt. I’ll sort it out at home.' Bob starts to walk down the hill with a limp, wincing.

'I have some TCP in the hut, Bob. It’ll make it feel better. Pay you back for the Wagon Wheel?' Kristen calls after him, scraping up the biscuit fragments that Bob had thrown at her and stuffing them into her mouth.

'Who are you, my Mum?,' shouts Bob. He continues his descent but then a guilty feeling sweeps over him. Slowly, he turns back up the hill. 'I’m sorry I shouted at you. I have had a long day. What’s your name?'

'Kristen but my family sometimes calls me Kris.'

'Where do you live? What time are you allowed out until? I can stay out as late as I want.'

'Erm, I live close by. My parents are pretty laid back.'

'So laid back they don’t feed you?'

'Yeah, sort of,' says Kristen. Her smile fades as she thinks of her Mum and Dad, probably stirring tonight’s stew, worried about what’s happened to their daughter. 'Anyway, let’s clean that knee up.' She turns and lowers her head to enter the bunker. 'Come on! You’re not scared are you?'

Bob walks gingerly behind her and pokes his head through the entrance. The flickering kerosene lamp illuminates the walls, highlighting streaks of graffiti and small scraps of paper with intricate drawings on them. 'Cool den!' he says.

Kristen rummages in her backpack and finds the small first-aid kit she brought with her. She opens the bottle of TCP, tears a lump of cotton wool off, soaks it in the pungent liquid and dabs it on Bob’s knee. Bob recoils and digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands. 'That’s fine. Doesn’t hurt,' he splutters, as Kristen tries to suppress a laugh.

'Plaster?' She asks.

'Yes please. So, what do you do in this den then? Do you play with your friends here?'

'Play?' ponders Kristen, as if she has never heard the word before. She chooses to ignore Bob and busies herself packing up her first-aid kit. She straightens her tarpaulin and neatens her pile of books.

Kristen squeezes past Bob to go back outside. 'I should go,' she says breezily, walking slowly along the path behind the bunker.

Bob looks at the darkening sky and begins to panic. He has never been out so late before. 'See ya,' he shouts as he runs down the hill. He doesn’t stop until he reaches the end of his road. The front door is open. 'I’m in trouble now,' he thinks.

Kristen peers over her shoulder until Bob is out of sight, then turns round, back to her concrete shelter. Unrolling her sleeping bag, she picks up her book and reads by the flickering light of the lamp. Soon her eyes grow heavy, her book falls to the floor, and she leans over to turn out the light.


	6. Chapter 6

‘Seamus, how the hell are you?!’ exclaims Dave Joyce as he spies Seamus shuffling through the door. He leaps up from his chair and pumps Seamus’s fist in an aggressive handshake. ‘I didn’t realise you’d be here.’

‘Yeah, same to you,’ mumbles Seamus, trying to avoid looking Dave in the eye. It had been a long journey for Seamus from the Kerry coast to here. Wherever ‘here’ was. All he could tell was that it was somewhere in England. Somewhere nondescript. Suburban. Somewhere he’d never been before. The previous night he had been taken to a small cottage on the hill just outside of town where he could stay during the task he was about to perform. Today a car brought him down to a bridge by the river. ‘Under that arch, there’s a door. Go through the door,’ the driver had said, seconds before it sped away. Now inside an echoing windowless stone-walled room, he drops himself into a chair on the opposite side of the room from Dave. ‘So, do you know what’s happening, Dave?’

‘We’re getting paid, Shem. That’s what’s happening!’ roars Dave, slouching in his chair with his legs wide apart. ‘Power stance’ he had read in one of his magazines, ‘makes you feel in control’. ‘Fake it to make it,’ or something like that. He shoots a leering grin at Seamus.

‘Well, yes, obviously, but what are we doing? And don’t call me Shem. You know I hate it.’ Seamus nearly hadn’t got into the car yesterday when it picked him up from his home. He remembered the money that was owed to him but he was happy without it. Maybe he’d even be happier never having it, he thought. But it was a lot of money for just a few days’ work. He could always give it to charity. ‘If I’d have known  _ he  _ was going to be here too I’d definitely have stayed in Ireland.’ He ruminates to himself and turns to look at the door. Something to look at instead of Dave’s gold teeth and paunch.

As he does so, Anna bursts into the room, ruddy-cheeked. She looks up and sees Dave and Seamus. ‘Oh, Christ, it’s you two. Erm, good to see you.’ Anna teeters in her high heels and attempts to flatten her hair. She scans the room. ‘No drinks? I need one after that journey!’

Dave grunts and pulls a battered flask from the pocket of his baggy leather coat. 'Here, have a swig of this if you like.'

'Just like the old days,' giggles Anna. She sighs as she turns to face Seamus. 'It’s been a long time but you haven’t changed a bit.'

‘Same to you, Anna. I was hoping that you’d be here too,’ replies Seamus, the hint of a smile on his lips as he gets up to greet Anna with an awkward hug. He tries to hide the hole at the elbow of his cardigan. Anna leans forward to kiss his cheek but Seamus has already turned round to sit down. Shortly after the shock of seeing Dave, Seamus had found himself hoping that he would see Anna again. Seamus and Anna both turn to Dave, struggling for something to say, but decide to say nothing.

‘So, what have you been up to, Anna? 13 years, eh, but it just feels like yesterday seeing you again. You’re looking… well.’

‘Oh, thanks. I’ve been… busy. On and off. I did a play at the Donmar Warehouse a while back. You might have seen the reviews? It was.. four, maybe five years ago now. Other than that, I still have my darling cats, of course. Not the same ones though…’ She blushes, her hand involuntarily touching her cheek. ‘You should come round to see my pride and joy, Seamus. My garden. I don’t live far from here. It’s only small, but so beautiful this time of year.’

‘Yes I’d like that. This task, whatever it is, should all be done in a week, then it would be nice to relax a while before heading home.’

‘Where  _ is  _ home for you? Back in Dublin?’

‘Back in Ireland, yeah. West coast. Kerry. There’s nothing much there but… I like it. I’m happy, Anna.’

‘I’m so glad, Seamus. Did they tell you what the task is?’ As Anna speaks, the lights flicker and footsteps echo behind a rusting metal door at the back of the room. The door swings open, smashing into the wall. 

Seamus, Anna and Dave all look up to meet the eyes of four scruffy-looking people. Tall, slim men, with well-chiselled but strangely emotionless faces. All four are incongruously dressed like hippies from a past era.

‘Greetings, and good afternoon. We have not met but we know that we can be to each others’ benefit. You need money, and we need … some tasks performed. Listen to us carefully and we will expedite the plan. Please remain seated,’ says the taller of the four men.

The man to his left then reaches into his kaftan’s pockets to reveal three envelopes. ‘As per our agreement, each contains £25,000. It is yours upon successful completion of the first task.’

‘Yeah, yeah, we know all about the money. Just tell us what we need to do. You haven’t told us anything about the task,’ spits Dave. He sits forward in his chair, making space for his belly.

The taller hippy sighs and raises his finger to his lips. ‘Of course, Dave. But that is why we are here. Please, you have been very patient with us all. We are very grateful for that. Could we ask you to spin your chairs round to face the wall opposite us?’

With a great deal of huffing and puffing, the three actors do as they are told. Anna and Seamus sit quietly while Dave rocks on his chair’s back legs. The lights dim and three of the hippies position themselves behind the chairs.

'Close your eyes,' says one, with a slight lisp. Seamus, Anna and Dave can smell patchouli and feel a strangely cold breath on their necks. They shudder in unison. 'Now, breathe in through your nose. And out through your nose. And in through your nose…'

Anna and Dave begin to drift into a meditative state but Seamus struggles even to keep his eyes closed.

The men put clammy, firm hands onto the actors’ foreheads, jerking their heads back. They struggle but are held strong as the hippies reach into their kaftan pockets to extract what look like small silver guns. With a jolt the weapons are pressed to the back of the actors’s skulls, just above their necks. They release their foreheads.

Then, nothing. 'What was all that about,' shrieks Seamus, spinning around in his chair, as he gently rubs the back of his head. His heart is pounding and his palms sweating. Something feels very wrong. “What’s going on?” he shouts, louder this time. 

'Shush,' says Anna, trying to breathe slowly through her nose. 'Calm down. What’s the worst that can happen? I don’t know about you, but I need the cash. And the excitement. Life is just too dull these days.’

She closes her eyes again and sits back in the chair, trying to relax her shoulders, which are creeping up to her ears. She lets her mind drift, remembering the good times with Seamus and Dave. She knows she had been a pain to work with but they had been very forgiving and fun.

A smile spreads across her face but quickly fades. Moving images are floating across her eyes, images that she is not in control of. It’s as if she is trapped in a lucid dream. 

The Pinky Ponk gently hovers over bright green rolling hills. Babies in their cots suck their thumbs and close their eyes. In the distance, Upsy Daisy waves at her. She appears to be deep in conversation with Makka Pakka. 

The nostalgia is overwhelming. Anna takes a deep breath. 'Seamus, do you see what I’m seeing? Can you see us together in the lush landscape? I can almost smell the freshly cut grass.’

She opens her eyes and blinks, her forehead wrinkling into a frown. ‘The images won’t go away,’ she says, trying to hide her rising panic. 

'Are you OK Anna? Need another drink? You don’t sound too good. I was just enjoying exploring the old In The Night Garden set,' says Seamus. He then closes his eyes, 'Oh yes, I thought it was a video projection, but it’s in my mind. Memories, eh, Anna?' he says with a chuckle. He looks over at her fondly but finds that he is blinded. Whichever way he looks, Makka Pakka and Upsy Daisy taunt him. 

Soon the image in their minds fades to black then changes to reveal a park, full of chestnut trees, by a river. 'I can see a park by a river, can everyone else?' The others nod their heads as a voice booms from behind them. All three jump in their seats. The trip down memory lane had lulled them into a false sense of security.

Seamus feels a sudden tingling chill and his palms are once again sweaty. There’s no way out. He couldn’t leave now, even if he wanted to. And how could he abandon Anna? He had done that once before. A second time would be unforgivable.

'Now you shall see your task. Regard it well. Do not ask questions. Do not deviate from the arranged plan,' shouts the tallest hippy, who appears to be in charge. He flicks a switch.

Anna screams and tries to leap out of her chair, but is held there by firm hands. 'God, no, make it stop. Make it stop. MAKE IT STOP.' She screws her eyes tightly shut but the image plays on - projected directly into her brain. She tries to breathe again but the panic is rising and she feels as if she is going to black out.

Seamus reaches out for Anna’s hand but she yelps when he squeezes it too tightly. The colour has drained from his face, and he is shaking his head furiously in a vain attempt to blur the image in his mind’s eye. 

Dave grips the armrests in his seat and spins round to kick the hippy holding onto the back of his chair. The chair tips over as Dave sprawls onto the floor, whimpering. He feels sure he has broken his leg but can’t see to check. The hippy stands his foot on Dave’s chest as the images of the task continue to play.

Anna remains motionless for a long while. Her limbs feel paralysed and she is emotionally drained. She tries to empty her mind, recalling countless yoga and meditation classes from her years in Hampstead.

As she achieves an aching emptiness, the images begin to flicker again. This time there are trees but they are by a frozen lake. A confident blonde girl bounds onto the scene, eyes focused on a cawing crow trying to get her attention. The girl laughs to herself and stops. It feels as if she is looking straight at Anna.

Her skin prickles and tears spring to her eyes. It dawns on her just how much she loves this girl, her sister’s daughter. She has never really thought about it before but she can see herself in Alice, the good side of herself. She has never loved anybody else in the same way.

Anna freezes rigid and opens her mouth to scream. The images flicker again and Alice is in a dirty, darkened room, curled up in the corner, her wrists and ankles bound. Anna can smell the patchouli and hear a shuffling as Alice screams in agony. She looks up at the camera with pleading eyes. 

Anna feels as if her heart is going to burst. Her breath becomes ragged and she frantically claws at the air before collapsing in her chair, unconscious at last.

Dave is on his own journey. He sees two identical twins walking down a suburban street, kicking stones along the pavement. 'My boys, my precious boys!' he smiles to himself, relieved that the horror of seeing his ‘task’ is now over. He reaches out to grab them and hold them to him, forgetting that the image is all in his mind. The two boys turn around, smiling, as a car pulls alongside them. Out leap two men, hooded, dressed from head to toe in black. They bundle the boys into the back of the car and speed off into the distance.

The image darkens and switches to a desolate gravel quarry. Two teenage boys lie with their legs intertwined and backs arched unnaturally. Blood seeps from deep gashes in their necks. 

Dave scratches at his eyes in a vain attempt to erase the picture playing out in his head, and sobs. But his mind is flooded with vivid red blood. It’s as if the fluid is pouring over the insides of his eyeballs.

Tightly gripping Anna’s hand, Seamus has to endure his own torment. His eyes show him a ruddy-cheeked woman in a cozy, rustic cabin. Jars of newts in formaldehyde line the shelves behind her, glowing in the evening sun streaming through the window. She pulls out seaweed specimens from a deep green bucket and lays them out carefully on the pitted wooden bench in front of her. 'My Briony,' whispers Seamus. They had got chatting a few months ago in the queue at the fish and chip shop. Seamus felt that this could finally be someone he could love, and who could love him. He feels a warm glow inside. Suddenly the cabin’s door bursts open and a shadowy figure kicks Briony to the ground. The figure stamps and kicks Briony’s prone body as she writhes on the floor, smashing the glass jars one by one. 

As he shakes his head, his vision clears and he is back in the room. He looks at Anna, tears streaming down her cheeks and at Dave, lying on the floor clutching his leg and groaning. They both look like shells of their former selves. He must look the same, he thinks.

He strains his neck to look at the hippies standing guard behind them.

‘So, now you have seen the task,’ says the taller figure, in a calm, clear, voice. ‘And you have also seen the consequences should any of you fail to complete the task. It should all be clear to you now. We have implanted electrode arrays into your visual cortices and can remind you of what you have just seen should you waver at any point. Of course, we do not expect to have to do this. Remember, this money is for you.’ He points to the three envelopes lying on a table. ‘Now, please, to work.’

Anna and Seamus get unsteadily to their feet, clutching onto one another. They reach down to help Dave, propping him up between them. The three know that their lives will never be the same again. They also know that they can’t go back. They have to see this through to the bitter end. 

The hippies, gentle now, direct them to a rusting steel door. They pull the levered handle and guide them into the dazzling light. The three of them look slowly around. They appear to be in an old aircraft hangar. At its centre sits the Pinky Ponk, with its engine gently purring. Lying on the floor beside the door to the Pinky Ponk’s canopy are their old costumes: Igglepiggle, Upsy Daisy, Makka Pakka. ‘Please, put these on,’ says the tall man, ‘Then climb aboard.’


	7. Chapter 7

‘Go outside. And shut the door!’ screams Bob’s mum. She had had quite enough of his moping and arguments this morning. Bob stomps into the kitchen, grabs a handful of goodies from the biscuit tin and puts on his coat. With a grunt he slams the door behind him. ‘What to do now,’ he thinks. Andrew had gone off with his boring mates some hours earlier. He turns up the alley and strides up the hill towards Kristen’s shelter.

The walk seems longer than he remembers from last time. All of that arguing must have sapped his energy. He slows his pace as he begins the ascent, huffing and puffing and muttering to himself. He doesn’t even like Kristen. She’s too weird. But his feet carry him forwards.

Once the huts are in sight, Bob hides behind a tree. He feels uneasy but doesn’t know why. An acorn hits him square on the forehead and he looks up to see Kristen sitting amongst the branches, filthier than ever.

‘Gotcha!’ she guffaws, nearly falling out of the tree in the process. ‘You should have seen your face!’

‘Yeah, good one. Is this what you do for fun then? Throw acorns at people?’

‘No. That was just a happy coincidence. I’m good at climbing trees though. There’s a really good view from up here. You probably can’t climb it.’

‘Course I can,’ tuts Bob as he tries to lift his leg up onto the lowest branch.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t…’ But it’s too late and the branch cracks under Bob’s weight and he tumbles to the floor. ‘OK, so tree-climbing isn’t your thing. Shall we do something else?’

‘S’pose. Nothing much to do up here though is there? Shall we go to the park?’

‘I can see the park from up here. I’ve been watching your brother and his mates. They are so lame. Can’t they see how embarrassing it is to be in a play park at their age? They are actually swinging properly on the swings and taking turns on the roundabout. Let’s go and wind them up.’

Kristen swings herself around to a lower branch and then leaps to the ground, landing neatly on two feet. 

She runs over to the hut and pulls a tarpaulin over her stuff. ‘Right, let’s go!’

Bob and Kristen plod in silence, Bob rustling the biscuit wrappers in his coat pocket. He doesn’t know how he feels about making fun of Andrew.

‘So what do you want to do then? This was your idea after all,’ says Kristen as they push open the heavy rusting gate and step into the park.

‘I dunno. I mean, playing on the swings and stuff is really sad. We could get some sticks and collect some conkers?’

‘Well, if that’s the best you can come up with. Come on then.’ Kristen walks to the side of the boating lake to collect a handful of sticks drifting on the water before heading towards the copse of horse chestnut trees by the play park.

‘Doesn’t look like they’re quite ready yet, but they might come down if you catch them right,’ Kristen shouts at Bob. She launches a stick up into the branches, heavy with knobbly green conker casings. ‘Ooof, just missed’.

Andrew and his friends pretend not to see them. He’s content playing on the swings, seesaw and roundabout. Andrew had always been a quiet child and was feeling so confused by puberty. Not by the hormonal rages - he was used to them now - but by the idea that he was supposed to be ‘a teenager’ or even worse, ‘a grown-up’, when he liked nothing more than playing in the park with his equally confused friends. He knows Bob just laughs at him, but Andrew tries not to care.

Kristen screams with laughter and Bob cringes. ‘Why does she have to be so loud? Weird.’ He glances over at Andrew and his friends, feeling twisted emotions of love and annoyance. He feels deeply protective of Andrew, even though he is older. Bob understands how the world works but Andrew seems oblivious to reality, preferring to watch cartoons or read his comic books. Bob has even caught Andrew watching toddler TV at times, although he had quickly changed the channel, a blush spreading over his cheeks. 

Bob sighs and feels deeply uncomfortable. He looks over the tops of the trees, watching the migrating birds. ‘Let’s give up, Kristen. They’re not coming down yet.’ He drops his sticks in a heap and stuffs his cold hands into his pockets. ‘Oh, I forgot about these. Do you want one?’ He retrieves two squashed-looking Wagon Wheels from the depths of his pocket.’

‘Oh yeah, thanks.’ Kristen snatches one out of his hand and greedily takes a bite, getting a chunk of wrapper too in her haste. ‘Mmm, god, these are so awesome. Hold on, can you hear music? Bit cold for an ice cream van isn’t it?’

‘It sounds like it’s coming from behind the trees. Maybe it’s a boat on the river with the radio on, or summat.’

‘Yeah, probs.’

Having finished their biscuits, Bob and Kristen sit on the wall near the lake, idly throwing acorns and watching the ducks dive out of the way. Bob glances up at Andrew, still on the swings. ‘Boring, innit?’ he complains. ‘But, that music sounds like it’s getting louder, doesn’t it?’ They look up in the direction of where the music’s coming from - over the trees, past the play park, when a strange hovering, pink airship looms into view. Flying slow and low, its canopy just scrapes the tops of the tallest trees.

Andrew and his friends catch sight of it too, jump off the swings and seesaw, gleefully point to the sky and start chanting. ‘What are they saying?’ asks Kristen?

‘Sounds like 'The Pinky Ponk. The Pinky Ponk'’ replies Bob.

‘What’s a plinky plonk when it’s at home?’

‘It’s not plinky plonk, it’s Pinky Ponk. Oh, I can’t be bothered to explain. It’s from some old TV programme. Andrew was obsessed with it. Mum still teases him now. None of it makes any sense.’

‘Oh,’ says Kristen. ‘But why are they chanting it? Are they on drugs?’

They both turn to look at Andrew and his mates. Not only are they squealing, but they have also started to jump up and down and clap their hands. 

‘They should be careful, they will wet themselves if they carry on like that,’ snorts Kristen, wondering if she had picked a rogue mushroom for last night’s dinner. 

She looks again at the airship, which appears to be landing next to the water’s edge. The older boys all start to run, not looking at each other but totally entranced.

After landing, the Pinky Ponk doors open to reveal three strange-looking characters skulking inside: one blue, one brown, one pink, frantically pushing multi-coloured balls through the doors. One by one, they land on the muddy grass and instantly inflate into huge bouncing, grinning balloons. ‘The Haahoos! The Haahoos!’ Andrew and his friends shout, running towards them, arms outstretched, as the music grows louder and louder and louder.

Andrew races ahead, his face red and beaming. Bob had never seen him like this before. Finally, reaching one of the Haahoos he leaps up as if to hug the monstrous plastic smile.

But as soon as his fingers touch the creature, Andrew seems to pass straight through it, without emerging from the other side. It is as if the thing - the Haahoo - has absorbed him. The same thing is happening to all of his friends. One by one they disappear. 

The music stops and there is a deathly silence. Kristen and Bob are rooted to the spot, unable to utter a word. 

As they stare open-mouthed at the Haahoos, a shimmer appears around them. A haze of nano-sized fragments comes from the tops of their heads. For a moment, Andrew’s ghostly, fragmented form appears. But in an instant, the particles disperse into the air. He has gone. They have all gone.

The three figures in the Pinky Ponk gather up the Haahoos, stuffing their now-deflated bodies in through the airship doors. The blue figure presses a red button causing the now quiet pink airship to rise up into the air, the canopy doors sliding shut silently as it floats back over the trees. 


	8. Chapter 8

The Pinky Ponk floats back from the park towards the river. Under the bridge and into the hangar.

Igglepiggle, Upsy Daisy and Makka Pakka gingerly step out onto the concrete on unsteady legs, shoulders drooping. The tall hippy steps through the rusting door and beckons them back into the main room to sit down. ‘Thank you. You have done well. As we have promised, by the side of your chair is your money. It is yours, please take it. But first, I would advise you each to ingest the pill you will see beside the small glass of water. Believe me, it will help.’

Seamus, Anna and Dave look at each other and shrug sadly. ‘What have we got to lose?’ says Anna in a whisper. They each wash the pill down with a glug of water as one of the hippies presses a small button on a console on the wall.

The flickering images of horror and torment play in the three actors’ minds as before. ‘You have just taken a powerful amnestic agent’ says the hippy. ‘By reactivating these memories, we can erase them. They will not trouble you. Until we meet again.’


	9. Chapter 9

Anna awakes with a start, her forehead clammy, bolt upright staring at the bare wall at the foot of her bed. Was it all a dream? She shakes herself awake and shudders as snapshot memories of the previous day try to force themselves into her mind. ‘I thought I’d changed,’ she muses to herself, ‘become a better person. Perhaps I’ll never escape my past. Does anyone?’ As she props herself up against her pillow she sees something sticking out from under the mattress. Reaching down she takes it out: a faded, dog-eared polaroid. Two young girls, squinting into the sun eating dripping ice-lollies. The thoughts she tried so hard to suppress push themselves to the surface. 

Alex. It was a name she struggled to say out loud. Her big, bright, beautiful sister had always been the one to pick her up when she fell, to hide her secrets from their over-protective parents. Alex had been the popular one at school as well as being teachers’ pet.

But they had grown apart after Alex left home to marry Dan Walker. He was older than her, on his way to becoming a consultant neurosurgeon. Alex worshipped the ground he walked on, it really was quite pathetic. As time wore on, she had become unbearably smug, condescending and judgemental.

At the same time, Anna’s life was beginning to unravel. She felt she could never compete with Alex academically, but found her home in drama classes. Finally, she could play the roles of someone else: someone successful, attractive, desirable. Like her big sister. Anna threw herself into performing, encouraged by her teachers. She revelled in the attention from the audience. Her first, and deepest, love was with them, the eyeless crowd in the dark. She would forget they were there until the eruption of applause as the curtain fell. Other relationships, ‘real’ relationships, were more difficult. And painful.

One day she met a BBC TV producer called Jonathan. She had been hanging out at the local theatre bar where all the young hopefuls dreamed of being whisked off their feet. She had felt Jonathan’s eyes on her as she told one of her over-dramatic stories. Everyone laughed too loudly. When Anna looked up, slightly embarrassed by the fakeness of it all, he was still staring. He was very ordinary looking, wearing chinos and a crumpled pink shirt, but something drew her to him.

Later, she brushed past him on her way to the cloakroom. He had touched her wrist and caused her to shudder. That was the start. He had whispered something in her ear and before she knew it, she was scribbling her phone number on one of his fancy business cards. 

From that day on, she lived in Jonathan’s shadow. ‘You have something, Anna. Something special,’ he used to say, ‘something you can show the world.’ Anna trusted him implicitly. Jonathan rose through the ranks in the BBC and eventually was given his own series to direct; a set of challenging kitchen-sink dramas of grime and poverty. Anna was the lead actress. The critics in the Guardian and the New Statesman lauded her, constantly tipping her as ‘the next big thing’, but the audiences at home were left cold. Dwindling viewing figures caused the series to be cancelled, and Jonathan was moved to another department. He had one more chance to make a successful show or it was back to the penury of the theatre.

Anna had tried to be understanding but years of trying vainly to impress TV executives had led her to develop a drug habit. At first it had been a snort of cocaine to give her confidence; she never could shake the feeling that she was worthless and second best. But before long, coke wasn’t enough. Anna found herself turning to heroin. 'It will be the death of me,' she thought. 

At his lowest point, Jonathan had called all of his eager interns to a brainstorming session. 'No-one leaves this room until we have a hit TV series,' he had bellowed. One bright spark, an over-ambitious PPE graduate from Oxford, had suggested a trippy kids’ TV show. Speeding miniature trains, doleful air-balloons, a jumpy blue boy with a blanket, and a singing girl who slept in a bed in the middle of a bright green field. Jonathan had nothing to lose. His own addled brain had no better ideas, but at least he came up with the name ‘In The Night Garden’.

Soon, all of Jonathan’s time was spent creating the new programme while Anna sank further into herself, and her drugs.

When it came to the casting, Jonathan knew Anna must be Upsy Daisy. His muse. She could play anything. Anna felt she had little choice. Despite the critics’ plaudits she had been out of work for months. Reluctantly, she donned the hot, furry costume for what she thought was ten 30-minute episodes.

Jonathan hadn’t noticed how emaciated Anna had become over the months. All he could see was Upsy Daisy. He glowed with excitement every time she stepped on to the set. He didn’t hear the sobbing behind the mask.

The only person who really knew Anna was Alex. She had spotted the very first mark on Anna’s arm, when she had embarked on heroin’s downward spiral. She had even tried to send her to rehab. Dan knew a wonderful doctor who could make her better, she had boasted.

Anna couldn’t cope with the intrusion and lived in constant fear than Jonathan would find out. He was like an excitable child; she couldn’t bear to let him down.

But Alex would not leave her alone. She would sit outside Anna’s flat in her Range Rover, a smug smile playing on her face. If Anna tried to ignore her, Alex would call up to her window in her cloying, sweet voice. Anna was feeling more and more suffocated. The insipid inanity of her acting job, her insufferable sister still trying to rule her life, the constant need for that narcotic blanket to numb her life.

As In The Night Garden became a global sensation, everyone wanted to know about the actors behind the costumes. Anna ignored the journalists who offered to tell ‘her story’. Tens of thousands of pounds they said, but she couldn’t bear the thought of people knowing it was her in that awful costume. But when they contacted Alex, she saw a chance to finally fix her little sister. She called Anna to meet her for a walk. Hyde Park, 10am, Monday morning. ‘I’ll tell them everything, Anna,’ Alex said ‘Just quit the drugs for good. Dan will help you. Please, Anna.’

Anna had just stared at Alex, her brain struggling to connect thoughts. 'I really do need help,' she thought. Alex’s voice droned on. Dan, Dan, wonderful Dan. 

They stopped on a path at the end of the Serpentine, where Alex had swum all through the summer. Anna tried to focus on the swans skidding across the ice. A darkness raged through her mind and her muscles twitched involuntarily. 

As if possessed, she gave Alex an almighty shove towards the frozen lake. Alex fell through the ice, leaving her handbag behind. Anna stood, arms folded, as Alex plunged into the water. Bubbles rose to the surface and Anna almost thought she could hear Alex’s voice as she disappeared from view.

Again, the darkness dominated and she walked slowly away, back through the park, past the roller skaters and runners. Life would never be the same again but she couldn’t turn back.

Propping herself up in bed, Anna turns the faded photograph over: ‘To my dearest Anna, All my love, Alex Walker (Big Sis) xx’. Pushing the photo back under her mattress she leans back against her pillow and weeps.

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


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